The Quiet Game
by OutlawQueenLuvr
Summary: Trina and Tom Decker like to play games.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Two of my fellow Queens of Darkness (Kiki and Carissa) and Allison introduced me to a fantastic show that only had a handful of fanfics written for it, so I decided to challenge myself to get inside Trina and Tom Decker's heads. Thus, The Quiet Game was born.

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It's not that Tom Decker minds flying economy. He doesn't. In fact, he'd prefer that to sitting with a bunch of hoity-toity passengers in first class. The real problem is that he'd actually like to be the one piloting the aircraft as opposed to sitting near the middle of the plane in his seat like a good boy.

A good boy who's bored out of his mind.

He glances down at his watch. It's late, or early; he's not sure which, considering they're in between time zones, flying over the great, big North Pacific, but either way it's dark outside. Tom leans into the aisle and peeks up and down the rows. Almost everyone is asleep, the stewardesses are busy seeing to the needs of their captains, and quietness settled over the cabin almost two hours ago. The benefit of taking a red eye from Tokyo back to Chicago. He reclines into his chair and then angles his head to look back at his wife (the wife who at the last minute surprised him and met him in Tokyo so they could fly back together on his trip home), head buried in a book about vampires living in the swamp or something by some author named – he glances down at the cover and is just able to make out the name – Anne Rice.

Trina appears content enough; engrossed in whatever it is that happens in books of that genre. She's playing with one of the tassels that tie together at the front of her halter top dress, and the way she's swinging it, back and forth, back and forth, draws his eyes to the valley between her breasts.

He clears his throat and then grabs her hand, causing her to look up. He's got this glint in his eyes that has her tilting her head to the side.

"What?" She asks needlessly, grinning from ear-to-ear, because she knows what that glint means, knows that particular gaze is always, always followed by their particular brand of delectable fun.

She just doesn't know the specifics yet, doesn't know exactly what he wants her to do, them to do. Though, she hasn't been disappointed by any of their ideas yet, so she isn't worried. Everything they've done has been equally pleasurable for her as it has been for him.

One way or another.

She sets her book down beside her, tucking it between the wall and her armrest, and then leans a bit into him. His hand moves to cup the back of her head, and he kisses her, fast, deep, needy.

Tom's mouth leaves Trina's and he whispers into her ear, "Are you up for–" his thumb brushes over her bottom lip "the _Quiet Game_?"

The stewardesses are still at the front of the plane, popping into the cockpit to check on the pilots or dishing out the skinney on recent happenings. Meanwhile, their fellow passengers are doing what most people do on a transcontinental flight – sleeping.

They've plenty of time for a little adrenaline rush, and this is the perfect window for it.

Her eyes widen, pupils dilate and then a delicious smirk spreads across her mouth. "When am I not up for the _Quiet Game_?" She quietly teases, tracing small circles over the thigh of his flared trousers, looking up at him and batting her lashes while biting her bottom lip.

He grins cheekily and places a chaste kiss on her bare shoulder, an action that quickly becomes anything but chaste as he replaces pecks with wet, opened-mouth kisses that leave trails of spit on her skin from her collarbone to her pulse point. He blows on the trails and the cool air and wetness pucker goose bumps over her arms, sending shivers down her spine and burning a fire in her belly. He _hmmm_s into the crook of her neck, kissing, licking, stopping there and sucking. His warm hand rests just above her knee where he's bunched the fabric of her dress up. Fingers opening and closing, opening and closing, and splaying there on her exposed skin, ever so close to where heat is already pooling between her legs.

He inches closer, closer, closer, until he's teasing at the edge of her panties, using his body to block her from view. Not that anyone can see, they're all asleep, but the fact that they might get caught, that someone might see, and the way his lovely wife is licking her bottom lip and meeting his heady gaze sends blood rushing straight to his cock. His hand is concealed under the skirt of her dress as he starts rubbing the silky fabric over her clit. Rubbing slowly, torturously so, until she swallows the saliva building in her mouth and squirms a tad in her chair, pressing herself up against his hand even further.

She wants him, and he wants her. That much has always been obvious.

Tom keeps rubbing, doesn't stop as Trina ungracefully searches for the button on her chair that'll let her recline back a bit, not a lot, hardly at all, but it'll be just enough that it changes the angle, just enough that it gives him better access to do more than just get her off by stroking and swirling over her clit that's becoming ever so sensitive with each thrum of his thumb.

The chair goes, and Trina goes with it, is able to scoot her bum forward and angle her hips just so and that does help, oh god yeah, that helps a lot. He rubs over her clit again and then rucks her panties to the side. He'd rip them if he could, but that'd make a lot more noise than they want right now. As it is, he's pretty sure that if any of the passengers sitting in front of or behind them were awake they'd probably be able to hear Trina's labored breathing.

Tom grins. He's definitely going to win this game.

He slides his fingers down, and they go easily. She's wet, really, really wet. The taunting and whispering and teasing making her body respond exactly how he wants. He slips one finger in, languidly pumps in and out in a come hither motion without resistance, and Trina opens her eyes to glare at him. This slow, steady pace will not bring her to orgasm. He knows this. She _definitely_ knows this, and just as she's about to sass that being quiet won't be much of a challenge for her, just as she's about to ask him whether or not he actually wants to play this little game of theirs, he adds a second finger and rocks his wrist a little harder, but not so hard that he can't keep the wet, slapping sound of his palm meeting her with each fuck of his fingers to a minimum.

The sensation is instantaneous. Trina's forehead scrunches up, she tightens her grip on the armrests, and her lips part in a silent cry as each come hither pump builds a familiar feeling, curling her toes, whitening her knuckles as she tightens her grip to anchor her down, to keep her from crying out, stoking a current deep in her belly, until she can't help the low moan of approval that escapes past her lips.

Tom chuckles and says, "You're already losing, Trina," leaning down and planting his lips on top of hers, stealing kiss after kiss that she gladly gives as he slowly pulls his fingers out of her and then cleans them with his tongue. Her eyes cloud over and she quickly reclaims his lips, tasting herself on him, tongues fighting for dominance as they always do, until Tom unbuckles his safety belt and shifts in his seat, reluctantly ending round one.

He kisses her neck once more, his mustache tickling the column of her throat before he touches his brow to her shoulder, groaning and then whispering so only she can hear him, "I'll meet you in the lavatory."

He leaves her with a pat on the leg and a gentle squeeze before standing up, adjusting his pants that are a little bit too snug now in the groin region. He shakes his right foot and makes his way down the aisle. A stewardess winks at him, while he shimmies past her toward the back of the plane; he looks back at Trina, and she smiles, panting and trying to catch her breath.

Oh, if he wants to play the _Quiet Game_, they'll play the _Quiet Game_. And she's going to win.

Trina waits a few minutes (or actually, she makes _him_ wait a few more minutes) before she follows, gets up out of her seat and sashays her hips determinedly toward her final destination. She pauses just as she reaches the closed door and grins.

Their relationship has been built upon games since they first met, and she absolutely loves it – the thrill of winning, trying to best each other. Games for secrets. Games for limits. Games for testing boundaries. But this game, the game of who can make who cry out in pleasure first is Trina's favorite. Some of her most memorable orgasms have happened during various rounds of this game. There's one particular instance, the last time they played the Quiet Game, that puts a satisfied smirk on her face as she walks into the cabin's back galley, pulls out a storage cart she knows contains plastic cups and ice, and helps herself.

They were at a neighbor's house party, enjoying spirits, Quaaludes and a bit of each other under the concealing bubbles of the Jacuzzi in Sam and Sarah Stevenson's backyard. A yuppie couple sat across from them talking about how to grill the best hamburgers on a George Foreman, bragging about their family recipe for the perfect patty, a secret recipe of course, and all the while, Tom and Trina hid a secret of their own beneath the surface of the rolling water. Trina's hand pumping up and down his shaft from balls to head, while Tom was two fingers deep into lazily fucking her at such an odd angle under the water, awkward but steady and enough that it was doing the trick – the beads of sweat dripping off their brows mistaken for the temperature of the Jacuzzi and not how hard they were both trying to outlast the other.

She looks down, no need to adjust her halter top, plenty of cleavage, and then she fluffs her hair. Tom started this game, but she's going to finish it.

Gently pulling the door open, Trina steps into the lavatory to her hunky husband staring at her with a lust-filled, hungry gaze. "Hey Good Looking," he says, backing up and eyeing the cup in her grasp. "You wanna add _Hot and Cold_ to the _Quiet Game_, babe?" One of his brows quirks up and a challenging smirk appears on his face. "You sure about that?"

Trina saunters into his space, not that there's much to begin with anyway; these lavatories aren't known for there spaciousness, but it's enough. She rocks closer and pats his cheek. "Don't patronize me, Tom," she breathes, tapping him on the chest with her index finger. "I'm a big girl. I know exactly what I'm doing."

The words roll off of her tongue languidly; her deep voice and kiss-swollen lips, reminding him of just how uncomfortable his corduroys are now.

Trina plucks up one of the smaller pieces of ice and brushes it against her bottom lip. She_ mmm_s and then licks away the melted water before kissing him – the sensation supplies her with the exact reaction she'd been hoping for as Tom groans and slips his tongue into her mouth, his hands grabbing at her hips and then sliding to palm her firm ass.

Yes, she most certainly knows what she's doing.

She breaks her lips away from his and whispers, "D'you like that, Captain?" setting the cup of ice down on the sink counter. The nickname she gave him early on in their relationship feathers across his earlobe before she lightly nips and tugs on it. Trina swiftly unbuckles Tom's belt and unzips the fly of his pants – that much closer to winning.

He needs to stop the playing and teasing before he loses. His fox of a wife may know his weaknesses, but he also knows hers as well.

"No more talking," he husks, spinning her around so they're both facing the door, and continues, "One of the rules."

Truthfully, they've both broken many of the rules so far, but neither of them is tallying the count.

His palms skate their way up her body, hips to waist, over her toned stomach and up to grope her breast a few times before coasting up her arms. He directs her hands to lie flat on the wall in front of her, the cup of ice forgotten on the sink counter, and then starts to dry hump her from behind.

They're both pretty worked up already; Trina muffles her mouth against the inside of her arm to suppress the moan that slips from her lips, and Tom buries his face into her hair to halt the groan that's come out of his.

It appears neither of them is winning this round.

A knock raps on the locked accordion door.

"Occupied," Trina pants (that doesn't count as breaking the rules, not when an outside party interrupts), bunching up her dress and holding it above her waist as Tom pulls himself out and shimmies her panties down. She spreads her legs as wide as her thong will allow with it being around her ankles, is vaguely aware of Tom sliding his fingers between her folds to make sure she's still ready for him. She is, of course she is. Just the thought of what they're about to do is making her shudder in anticipation. There's another insistent knock at the door, and Trina goes to reply, "Occupi–" but inhales sharply instead as Tom takes advantage of her distraction and finally slams into her, his cock sliding in to the hilt from behind. Her mouth parts in a silent O, and she has to suck in a sharp breath and bite her bottom lip in order to not cry out as he pulls out and then thrusts back in again.

He starts slow, the way he knows drives her crazy, builds and builds and builds pleasure with each thrust of his hips. On the next thrust, he skates his hand down again, over her navel and straight to her clit. He begins the thrumming from earlier, rubs there each time he pulls out and then fills her again.

And then there's more knocking. It's unending, and if there's one thing Trina will not stand for it's an interrupted orgasm. She's so close, teetering on the edge with each passing moment as Tom continues to pound into her, hips slapping together, both still trying not to break, trying not to be the first to cry out, but then he's still thrumming at her clit, angling her hips further back so she's bent a little bit over, and now he's hitting that spot inside her that has her toes curling, and oh god, she's forgotten how to breath, she needs oxygen, she needs, oh god she needs more, more of this, more of Tom pounding into her, hitting that spot over and over and over.

He's winning; he's going to win. This is cheating; he knows what this angle does to her, knows that she can't stay silent with the way he's hitting her gspot with every single thrust. So she retaliates, bites her knuckles and then clenches around him, and maybe she shouldn't be doing that, because it's not just him that it's affecting. And it is affecting him, makes his thrusts fall out of rhythm, makes them more sporadic, but he's still hitting that spot with each thrust, and she's barely holding on. So Trina pushes back and rubs against him on his next thrust, and that does it.

"Oh sweet Jesus," Tom hisses, and it's over, she's won, so she cries out in release just seconds after he does, when her body tells her it's alright to finally let go, and let go she does. She's come, come, coming, legs trembling, muscles tensing and untensing as waves of ecstasy roll through her.

Trina Decker is a master at being quiet when absolutely necessary. But right now, now it's not necessary.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: For Carissa aka trina-deckers on Tumblr.

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The summer of 1976 kicks off America's 200th birthday with sizzling fireworks, backyard barbecues, poolside cooldowns and neighbors mingling, downing their sweet and bitter cocktails while taking long drags out of their cigars beneath the sun's unrelenting rays. Three weekends before Labor Day, the heat finally starts to ebb off, giving way to blue skies, puffy clouds and the first hint that summer is ending. It's still warm outside, but there's a pleasant breeze in the air, enough that Tom and Trina Decker ring the _Miller_s and the _Thompson_s over for a late afternoon of grilling burgers and dipping in the jacuzzi at their suburban paradise.**  
**

Janet is in the kitchen, filling tall glasses with ice cubes and homemade lemonade, cutting off the stems of mint leaves and adorning each refreshment with a bit of green. Bruce is gone, out to grab an extra bag of ice from the Hop n' Shop down the road. The children are across the street while the Millers' oldest, Laurie, keeps an eye on them. Susan is helping Roger flip burgers on the grill, smiling, the two of them laughing quietly, sun beginning to inch its way toward the horizon line.

Trina sighs, letting her head fall back, her eyes drifting shut as a quick but gentle gust of wind caresses her face. It's lovely out, the perfect day for bringing friends together over apple pie, burgers, hot dogs and cocktails. She's in the jacuzzi with Tom; her arms up and out of the water, draped along the concrete edge. One of her hands lazily eases out tension at the base of Tom's skull while the other limply holds onto her empty Collins glass.

She's fuzzy, warm, relaxed and drunk on sunshine and maybe a little boozed because of her second, strong gin and tonic. This feels nice, really nice, white and blue and gray spots dancing behind her closed eyelids as she slowly trails her fingernails over the back of Tom's shoulder, water dripping from her fingertips onto his skin. She lets out a little sigh again, moans pleasantly and— _oh_, her moan turns into a sharp intake of breath, head snapping to the side, eyes popping open and landing on Tom's mischievous grin. His body is angled toward hers a bit and his left arm is submerged under the water, jets churning up bubbles, keeping everything below Trina's breasts out of view.

"Tom?" She asks, biting on her lower lip playfully and smirking. "What are you doing?"

His boyish grin widens as she feels his hand slip between her thighs and tap them further apart. She complies, obviously, an amused smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, her tongue running over her teeth. Leaning closer, he husks into her ear: "I've no idea what you mean, babe." But he cups her through her bikini bottoms and rubs, languidly, slowly, because of course he knows _exactly_ what she means.

At first it doesn't really do much for her, not at this angle, not with her sitting up right, so she scooches down a bit, her breasts and red bikini breaking the surface of the hot water. She spreads her legs further apart, adjusts, and that helps, _oh, oh yes, that's nice_, begins a pleasant thrum of pleasure, sending a shiver up her spine and down to her toes as his strong fingers drag over her in short up and down strokes, teasing her clit through a thin layer of fabric.

Oh, but two can tease the way he is, the way he's tiptoeing around what she really wants, not touching her the way he knows she wants him to. Instead he's just… _teasing_, trying to get her to beg for it, to get her to break. But she won't. He may know what she wants, but she knows how he is, so she slips her arm into the water and tries her own form of teasing, smiling harder when she finds he's already hard and tenting at the front of his trunks.

Of course he is.

She rubs along his length and watches as he shuts his eyes and groans, and then his fingers are leaving her clit, and _no, no_, that's not what she wants. He grabs her wrist and whispers into her ear: "Ah-ah-ah," angling his head back to look at Roger and Susan, still grilling and completely unaware of Tom's wandering fingers beneath bubbles and heat. He urges Trina's hand back up and says, "Grip the edge of the jacuzzi, gorgeous," capturing her lips in a kiss, chaste at first and then a bit deeper, adding a little tongue before giving her a peck and urging, "No moving, no sounds."

Trina's pupils dilate and she beams. Oh, so that's what he wants. Her voice goes rough and cracks with excitement as she replies, "Quiet Game?"

He nods, and she immediately follows his request, hand coming up out of the water and stretching back behind him. She grips the edge of the jacuzzi and shifts her bottom further down on the seat, giving him better access.

The neighbors might be here, but the two of them have never shied away from having a bit of_fun_, least of all if people are around. That's what makes this so exciting, what makes this one of her favorite games. The tension, the anticipation, the idea that they might get caught at any moment.

Tom starts slowly again, and she arches into it, into his fingers rubbing against her, her breasts rising further out of the water, droplets dripping down her skin, glistening between her valley of supple curves. She swallows, licks her lips and starts rocking into his touch. It's not long before his fingers yank her bikini bottoms to the side, before he slides two digits through her folds and then dips them into her — the water not keeping her as wet as she normally gets, as wet as she knows he's making her, but it still works, this works. It's still building pleasure, still making her bite down on her lower lip to stifle a moan, her hands gripping tighter to the edge of the jacuzzi.

Trina closes her eyes, shuts them tight, breath coming out in quiet, little pants, her heart beating faster and faster as Tom's thumb rubs circles around and around her clit, pointer and middle finger now pumping in and then out of her, in and then out. It's not the smoothest he's been, but_oh god, oh yes, yes, there, that's it— don't stop, right there_, but it **is** good. Brow furrowing, knuckles whitening as her fingers dig into concrete, and _yes yes yes_, this is happening. He's bringing her closer and closer to the edge, wrist rocking into her, fingers rubbing against that spot inside her in a come hither motion that has her spreading her legs further apart, has her stomach muscles clenching, her toes curling, and _oh god, yes yes yes_—

"Lemonade!" Janet practically sings, stepping quick-footed toward Trina and Tom, a silver tray with five glasses filled to the brim balanced on the palm of her outstretched hand. "There's a sprig of mint," she points out, unaware of how close Trina is to the orgasm of which she's just robbed her. "I added that touch myself. Makes it more refreshing." Janet smiles, showing the Deckers her pearly whites, and then she frowns. "Trina, you're getting a little red." She points toward her cheeks. "Maybe that's enough of the jacuzzi. Come on, time for you to get out, cool down. Wouldn't want you to overheat, now would we?"

She waves at her with her hand and Trina chuckles, but then her breath hitches and she closes her eyes, brow furrowing, mouth dropping open. And thank god Janet chose that moment to look down at the front of her blouse and pick a piece of lint off the cuff of her sleeve.

Tom bites his bottom lip and grins.

Janet's gaze is drawn back up to the two of them and she clacks her tongue. "Tom, look at your poor wife. She's absolutely beat. We need to get her out of the sun. Come on now," She repeats, turning around to grab them two towels.

"What'ya think, babe," Tom starts, his fingers rubbing more incessantly at her clit under the water. _Oh fuck_, _thank god for the jets and the bubbles_, Trina thinks as her all-too-pleased-with-himself-husband says: "Time to get out?"

Trina shakes her head. "I'm fi— ine. Reall—y Janet. But maybe that— lemon— ade might help."

This isn't fair, this really — _oh god, I can't_ — this really, really isn't fair. Tom's playing dirty, and_this is Janet, and_ _this is— this is_— and she's so hot, so wet, so so wet, and,_ oh mother fuc_—

Over the years, Tom has become very skilled at working her up in public during these tit-for-tat games of theirs. He's figured out how to move his fingers inside her, rub his calloused palm over her clit and make her legs tremble, pleasure bloom and bloom and bloom without so much as a hint of movement in his upper body. It's how he's able to keep absolutely still right now, how he can look Janet in the eye and grin that stupid, smug grin and not give himself away, not hint at what's happening beneath the surface and churning bubbles.

It's absolutely not fair. Oh god, she's dying; she's so close, face flushed, sweat gleaming at her temples, body tensing, and then she careens over the edge with a sharp gasp.

"Oh Goddd," she cries, failing miserably to stifle her rough, sex-laden voice yet alone a choked moan from escaping her throat. Her hand flies from around Tom's shoulder, diving into the water and digging her nails into his thigh. That's enough she says, with her grip on his leg.

And the look on Janet's face… well… if looks could kill.

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Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.


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